


and then there were ashes

by Awal



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awal/pseuds/Awal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy and Angel encounter a mysterious batch of vampires while patrolling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and then there were ashes

**Author's Note:**

> To LanaLucy, for deciphering my writing and making it suitable for public consumption. Your help is invaluable <3

 

The first kick cuts the air where Buffy's head had been moments before. Too late, she realizes it was a feint. The vampire fists her new blouse with powder-covered hands and throws her bodily into a gravestone.

She _hates_ being thrown.

She releases a feminine growl and springs to her feet, jump-punching the charging vamp in the jaw. He crumples with the force of her blow and she follows with a kick to his head.

In an unexpected move, he wraps his foot around her ankle and tugs, rolling his body over her, and trying to force her to the grass.

She falls willingly, her weight launching into his side through her pointed knee.

He struggles to pin her to the ground, rolling and trying to wrap his limbs tightly around her body.

She maneuvers so she is holding his right foot in a figure four hold. She exerts pressure and twists laterally-- she can hear ligaments tearing and there is an audible pop as his knee slides to the side of his leg.

He roars under her, a trembling vibration that soaks into Buffy's bones. She stops his frantic thrashing with an elbow to his face. Her stake forces through his skin, then the slightest flex of muscle and it crunches through the thickness of his chest.

She falls through his ashes to the soft grass.

A quick glance to her right reveals Angel is still struggling against the other two vampires. They are launching a surprisingly coordinated attack, dancing around him and patiently landing blows when they see an opening.

Buffy throws herself into the foray and is immediately backhanded in the temple.

Her head jerks, her brain slamming roughly inside its protective cage. She hisses sharply at the immediate ache in her eye sockets.

A constant deep growl rumbles from behind her. She doesn’t have time to shake off her splitting headache because one vamp abandons his fight with Angel to lunge in her direction.

That’s when Buffy feels the warmth slide stickily down her cheekbone. As usual, everyone but her is newly energized by the scent of her blood.

The vampire looks sick as he attacks her, starving, Buffy realizes. His eyes are milky, His skin an alarming shade of grey-- almost a foggy translucent color that reminds her too much of reptile flesh. His body trembles as he lunges for her, eyes focused on the red at her temple.

Buffy easily deflects his jab and lets his momentum push the pointed wood through his breastbone.

She watches as Angel and the short vampire trade violent blows, and at the exact moment she sees an opening, Angel uppercuts him. The crunch is hollow, and Buffy briefly wonders if you can decapitate someone with a punch.

Angel doesn’t let him fall. Mid air the third vampire burns to ash and Angel becomes visible through the cloud, game face intact.

His vampire visage fades away as he closes the distance between them. His eyes remain embers.

Their words mingle, each asking if the other is okay.

Buffy smiles at him, feels the dried blood bend with her cheek, “Fine. A little woozy is all. And of course my outfit will never recover.”

His thumb is cool where he swipes at the smudge of dirt on her exposed belly. Her shirt is ripped open, a gaping hole exposing her from the under curve of her bra to her belt buckle.

She sucks air through her teeth, and before the flush of heat seeps into her limbs, the almost imperceptible tilt of Angel's head tells her her heart is newly galloping.

Buffy tries to picture it; the valves on her human heart opening and closing, blood sloshing into her arteries. She imagines what it would be like to hear the process, to see its corresponding blush tint her skin.

Suddenly the chilly air is too much, and she shivers.

Satisfied she has no life threatening wounds, Angel shrugs out of his duster and wraps it around her shoulders.  

Tucked into his side, she walks back to his apartment.

†

Angel gently dabs at the dried blood on her face and neck with a cotton ball. Despite her protest regarding the necessity,she is enamored by his gentle and attentive attitude. When she catches herself staring at him and considering using words like “adorable” she decides a distraction is due.

“The overflow of parental involvement has hit an all time high.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Way. It’s hard enough to do my job without over eager parents taking up extra curricular activities. Out on patrol last night, I was driven home twice by parents' neighborhood watch groups!”

Angel chuckles.

“Glad someone is amused. I had to slip out of my window three times.”

Angel curbs his smile, his fingers ghosting across the clear skin of her temple and cheek. The blood is cleaned up and there is no longer a wound. Even the surrounding bruise is gone.

“Good as new,” he announces.

He cleans up the stained cotton balls and leaves her in his living room with a fresh white t-shirt.

Buffy slips it on quickly, glancing sadly at the tatters of her new blouse. She should seriously consider handing out her allowance on patrol. At least that way she could skip the shopping and meticulously accessorizing and go straight to not owning it.

She drops the shirts remains in his trashcan, and scowls at the matted mess of dirt and powder caked into its surface.

She washes her hands immediately.

Instead of heading right back to his living room she takes some time to savor being in his space, surrounded by his things, his smell. She makes notes of his random belongings, interested in all the cleansers and soap he owns, razors, hair products, different kinds of brushes, and tiny scissors.

He is apparently thrifty. Choosing store brand products for all of his things except hair accessories. With a smile she expands her survey to other rooms.

She runs her hand over the binding of a particularly old book on his coffee table. It’s written in something other than English, so its plain cover gives no clues to its contents, nor does its tea-stained pages of random calligraphy.

She moves to put the book back in the exact spot she got it from, and freezes. The way the book was tilted -- its end vertically aligned with the edge of the table -- is just the beginning. The table is parallel to the L of the overhanging picture frame, and sitting dead center is his chair. From there, the room flows in a meticulous symmetrical layout of his belongings and their precise spacing. Even the patterns on his rug are angular and incorporated.

His book shelf appears to be organized by title, author, language, _and_ category.

There's a pattern to his art work she doesn't quite get; aside from its positioning there’s something about the colors, the brushstrokes, even the frames, that are reminiscent of her mother's gallery.  So she's sure it's organized by something like time period or artist.

She can’t help but snort. Her vampire boyfriend is obsessive compulsive.

Her perspective of him is continually changing, shifting into something more intimate. Something she can’t categorize or label. There's an understanding inside of her, stuck in her throat, balled up in her chest, refusing to be unraveled.

All she knows is she is dizzy with the possibilities, and equally afraid.

Her head's still spinning when Angel comes through the apartment door, the faint smell of smoke clinging to him. She realizes immediately he'd gone to burn the soiled cotton balls.

Her eyes turn remorseful. However, the look on Angel's face advises her he is moved by a force other than nutritional sustenance.

Buffy doesn’t have enough time to contemplate the correlation between blood and sexual desire, or think about how her previous thoughts turned her heart into a beacon, or flavored her scent.

She takes a single step toward him and he pulls her into his arms, bending so their lips meet.

His tongue is cool against her lips, icy against her tongue. She lets out a sigh as she follows his strokes, slow, gentle.

His fingers edge their way under her shirt and spread across her lower back. His wide hand and long fingers almost span its entire length. The cool chill of his skin on hers fans the heat spreading through her extremities, igniting her nerves, and stealing her breath.

“Buffy?”

She nods ‘yes,’ whatever the question.

He smiles down at her. “What time do you need to be home?”

“I don’t.” she says. “Mom thinks i’m staying at Will's.”

“What time is Willow expecting you?”

“She’s not. She knows I’m staying with you,” her eyebrows knit, “unless this is you, wanting me to stay elsewhere?”

“It’s not.”

He kisses her, firmly this time, bending her back so she is just slightly off balance. The hand under her shirt slides against her side, his fingers pressing against the edge of her bra, sliding under it and following it around to her back.

His tongue is thick in her mouth, slick, and she can’t stop making sounds as he slides it in and out. Her pulse bounces around in her head, roaring in her ears. She fists the hair at the nape of his neck, struggling to hold on to her sanity. There isn’t a part of her body that isn’t swaying or contracting.

He’s nipping at her lips and his chest rumbles against her with his deep drawn out moan. She recognizes this sound; he can smell she’s wet.

His fingertips dig into the indentation at the small of her back, and his hands slide down until his grip on her ass is pulling her against him tightly.

This time her moan is loud to her own ears and sounds partially like a sob.

She is flushed and panting harshly, struggling to breathe. Her heartbeat has mixed with the force of her headache, and the effect leaves her swimming, rocking into him with strength that would have pushed him over if he were anyone else.

Her hands are stiff, fisting and clutching him against her. If she doesn’t pass out soon her legs will surely collapse under her.

He’s sucking at her neck, human teeth scraping skin and sending tremors all the way down to her toes. His cool breath slides across her skin, like a rock skipping across a pond, the waves manifest as the clenching of her stomach.

“Angel,” she tries to get his attention, but it comes out foreign, a soft needy whimper.

“Angel,” she says again and there's a hint of anxiety mixed in. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He looks into her face and she has to swallow at the darkness of his eyes. There's nothing innocent about the way he smirks. It’s carnal, predatory, arousing.

He kisses her again quickly, and chuckles.

His laugh is disarming, and as he walks her over to the couch her embarrassment dissipates.

†

The next day Buffy pairs up with Willow to work on the class's study guide. As long as they aren't specifically told to complete the work solo, they sneak to work together. Buffy can remember tactical strategies for battles and wars, weaponry, armor, but history class is about remembering dates and names and those are some of Willow's strengths.

“Were the gains of the French Revolution (1789-1804) worth the pain it caused?” Willow reads the prompt out loud for the third time.

“Yes.” Buffy answers confidently.

“Why?”

“Because democracy is good?”

“Buffy.” Willow scolds gently.

“Because.. it was a revolution. They had to revolt to liberate themselves.”

At Willows stare Buffy continues, “Which was necessary because liberation is freedom.. democratic freedom even...and as a result freedom...spread?”

Willow smiles, “That's all Ms. Holmes is looking for. You’ll do great on the test, if you can stay focused.”

Buffy slumps against her desk. “ I know! I’ve just been feeling icky.”

“Sick icky? Can slayers even get sick?”

Buffy's response is slightly muffled by the cocoon of her arms, “I don’t know, I think I just took a nasty blow to the head last night. I’ll be fine as soon as I get some free time to rest.”

“Sleep is not good for head injuries. That leads to comas, and memory loss, and--”

Buffy raises her head and stares blankly.

“--but you’re fine.” Willow finishes lamely.

“But aside from possible brain injuries you had a good time with Angel last night?”

“The best,” she confirms.

The first bell is shrill. Everyone in class immediately packs up their things, and darts out of the classroom.

“You guys didn’t--” Willow wiggles her eyebrows in a distinctly not subtle way.

“No, just cuddled. It was nice.”

Xander and Cordelia meet them in the hallway in front of their lockers. Buffy trades her thick history book for a slim purple English notebook. “What’s the what?”

“The what, my friend-” Xanders shoves an entire twizzler into his mouth and chews widely before continuing, “Is a new sub in Comp.”

Cordelia shoots Xander a look of disgust and swats his arm. “Try to pretend you’ve eaten food before.”

“A nice sub though right?” Willow asks hopefully, “one who’s knowledgeable?”

“Well, Sandy Ramero's dad does have a volunteer sticker with his name written in permanent marker.”

Three groans are punctuated by several slamming lockers.

“I’m out.” Cordelia says, separating herself from the group “I don’t spend this much time with my own parents.”

“You’re going to skip?” Willow asks quietly.

“Call it a sick day, this much parental involvement isn’t good for my health.” Her heels click sure and fast as she walks off in the direction opposite of class.

The warning bell rings, and dejectedly Buffy, Willow, and Xander all pick up their pace so they’re not late to English Composition.

†

That night as Angel approaches, the first thing Buffy notices is he's wearing a sweater. It’s black, elegantly cut, and a hint of his wife beater peaks out of the asymmetrical collar with his silver rope chain.

She has to smile when she remembers she is the reason he is not in traditional wear. His leather coat is now hers, and his duster is dirty from the previous night. In fact, she's lost count of how many times his duster has been torn, burned, coated, covered, or bled on.  She wonders briefly just how many he has. Or had.

She basks in his approach. He is beautiful, the strong lines of his face, the thick wide lips. Even under the moonlight she can see the fullness of his lashes. Her stomach clenches and butterfly wings flutter below her belly button.

Her pulse quickens before she can stop it, and his eyes deepen knowingly.

“Buffy.”

“Angel,” she breathes back.

He steps into her and she lays her palm on his cheek, returning his heavy gaze with an adoring smile.

His fingers gently tip her chin up and he leans down, pressing his lips against hers chastely. He rests his forehead against hers, and they stay that way for a few breaths.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

Her smile returns, “Hi.”

He tucks her under his arm as they meander through Sunnyrest cemetery. Her body heat reflects and cloaks her in his scent. She hasn’t quite figured out how to describe it. It’s pleasant, like fresh air, and she just wants to bury her face in his throat and close her eyes, breathing him in.

Comfortable silences weave into their conversational pattern. They’re past the superficial subtleties of chit-chat, and lately have been easing into the stage where they can just _be_.

"No questionable deaths, no suspected risings. If we manage to not run into any parents, we may have a quiet night."

Angel nods, automatically pausing to give Buffy a moment to bask in the sad beauty of an angel of grief headstone.

“I don't get it,” she says as they continue their stroll, “Vamps have eternity to do whatever they want and they hang out in cemeteries. It’s not like there's even anyone alive to eat here.”

“Besides using the crypts to hide from the sun? I think maybe when you don’t have a purpose you live by routine.”

She hums in consideration, “Makes sense. And hey, staying in one place means easy slayage so they have my approval. Now if they would just sweep themselves up I might have time for an actual life.”

“You wanted to be at the bronze tonight,” he summarizes.

“I wanted to be with you, just...elsewhere.”

But they’re patrolling, slinking through cemeteries for the greater good, making memories no other man will ever be able to live up to. The rational part of her brain is trying to protect her, to come up with some contingency plans to make everything okay if/when she is forced to live without him. But the conscious part of her knows she would never survive it, not when something as simple as taking a walk with him is shrouded in magic.

Buffy thinks about what life was like back at Hemery, particularly the culture of boys. How she mostly viewed them as something to be played with and manipulated. Means to an end. She had always assumed eventually she would settle down. Have a gorgeous beach house and pretty blonde kids of her own. But that was always so far off she had never thought hard enough to consider the timing of it all, or fill in any details about the blurry man who would be _The One_.

But the trajectory of her life changed dramatically with her calling. Everything she assumed about who she would grow into crumbled away, atrophied. Now the future is immeasurable, and she wonders simple things, like if she will be around long enough to see graveyards outside of Sunnydale. And if she does, she hopes it’s not for the funeral of someone she loves.

So it’s even more implausible her creature-of-the-night boyfriend is the one thing that makes her feel like a normal girl. But he is. Because she is living in a fairytale world somewhere between a beautiful fantasy and a twisted nightmare. But in this world, a world filled with monsters, he makes her his princess and kneels at her feet. A knight, pledging her his sword.  

There’s a gentle tug on her hand. “Where’d you go?” Angel asks softly.

She has to blink away the images in her mind, “I was just thinking… about being a normal girl.”

“You deserve normal,” he says levelly.

“I’m kind of digging some aspects of the paranormal.”

She nudges him and hopes he understands that to her, he is the best part of both worlds.

†

Their quiet introspective walk is interrupted as they’re jumped from behind. Three vampires vault from the side of a mausoleum in Restfield Cemetery and energetically attack.

A slim bald vampire trades blows with Buffy, his left hook connecting with her jaw, and she spins back, using the opening to punch him in his adam's apple.

His hands fly to his throat and he wheezes. Buffy smiles tauntingly at him. "Hey dumbass,  you don't need to breathe."

His face contorts with uninhibited rage, and as he continues sucking in mouthfuls of air, Buffy notices his neck strain.  

His neck has a tiny circumference, his tendons are visible, his greying skin is spidered with veins. Deja vu hits Buffy along with her disgust.

“Um Angel?” she calls out, not waiting for an answer.

Another vampire -- Asian descent with black hair so long it covers his eyes and sits on his lips --  does an impressive spin kick aimed at her temple. She easily sidesteps and catches his ankle, and with a quick jerk sends him through the air. His body folds into a gravestone nearby and Buffy flinches as he breaks the headstone.

The Bald vampire rushes her and she delivers a quick jab with her left hand, followed by a powerful right cross.

“I'm thinking there's a family reunion in town! ” She yells.

“They're affiliated with the vamps we staked last night,” Angel growls back.

“Totally just said that.”

Buffy and Angel maneuver until they're fighting back to back in one cohesive unit. Buffy kicks the long-haired vampire in the stomach and lands a downward elbow strike. Fluidly, she and Angel rotate and Angel stakes him.

The bald Vampire rushes Angel and he immediately lashes out with his fist. The vampire catches it and Angel growls as he throws his weight into a headbutt.

Angel is momentarily dazed, but Buffy is there landing a sidekick to the vampire's solar plexus. The vampire goes down hard, and she follows with her stake.

The last vampire aims a kick at Angel and catches Buffy under her chin. Her teeth clink together and she is off balance and falling until Angel tosses her bodily into the air. She tucks into a backflip and lands behind the vampire, catching him off guard with a back leg sweep. As he’s falling, Angel punches him in the back of the head, accelerating his momentum.

“Who are you?” Buffy demands.

The vampire snarls and charges at her. Buffy catches him with a solid front kick and he hits the grass hard. Buffy and Angel each step on one of his arms, immobilizing him.

“Who are you?” Angel growls menacingly. The vampire thrashes violently, hissing but not speaking.

His arm breaks under the pressure of Angel's foot, and he snaps at the air in response.

Buffy pulls a silver chain out of her pocket and holds it above him. The thick silver cross dangles and glints in the moonlight.

The vampire growls ferociously, froth coating his chin like a rabid animal.

“Fine,” Buffy says, staking him with a sigh. She really didn’t want to have the smell of charred flesh stuck in her clothes and hair.

†

“You’re quite certain these attacks are related?” Giles asks for the fifth time.

Angel simply nods his affirmation.

“Do I not sound convincing enough?” Buffy asks. “Because this is me being certain. This is my one hundred percent positively certain face. Be convinced.”

“Yes, well.” Giles nurses his tea, slowly pacing the library's floor.

“And neither of you saw any marks or trinkets or anything else of the sort?”

“Giles, really. We did the summary thing. No marks, no tattoos. No matching uniforms with their team name embossed.” Buffy bounces out of her chair, sliding her hand into Angel's.

Willow and Xander rise from their seats as well.

“Forgo patrol tomorrow and come straight here. I will find out what I can tonight.”

“Great. Meeting adjourned,” she says, heading for the door.

“Great” Xander agrees. ”Giles will hit the books, Willow will hit the computer, I’ll bring snacks, and Buffy and Deadboy will make out in the stacks while we all pretend not to notice. It’ll be just like old times.”

Buffy and Willow both glare at Xander. Willow slides her elbow into his ribs.

“What!?” Xander yells indignantly.

†

The library's extensive demonic collection makes research a truly awful experience.  There are simply too many books with scattered subject matter to find something they can’t identify.

"I would rather pick needles from hay bales blindfolded," Buffy says seriously.

“I’ll take your hay bales and raise you digging for milk duds in piles of cow dung.” The statement earns Xander several grimaces.

“Winning is dirty business,” he says proudly.

Willow exits Giles' office holding several bookmarked volumes, “Guys--”

Collectively, everyone closes the books they’ve been reading and pushes them into a discarded pile in the center of the library's table.

“There are no prophecies that match this timeline. The absence of ominous spirits and earthquakes are kind of testament to that. We think this may just be a new coven in the area.”

“Just? They've already attacked twice. Who's to say how many there are or what they want?  Or next time you guys won’t become targets?”

Willow concedes her authority with a look to Giles.

“The fact that they are attacking in small groups leads me to believe they don’t have the numbers necessary for a large scale attack,” he says.

“They haven’t combined forces to utilize the element of surprise, which says they're unorganized or there’s a power struggle within their leadership,” Angel contributes.

“I guess there can’t be a new big bad every week,” Xander says. “There’s gotta be some stupid vamps just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ya know, attacking the slayer, being stupid.”

“Precisely. Perhaps we will find answers tonight. Do refrain from killing at least one of them so we may gain some perspective. It would be immensely helpful to find out where they have taken up residence.”

“I tried that last night,” Buffy confirms. “The vamp committed suicide: death by slayer.”

“Nevertheless--”

“We’ll make it happen,” she says resolutely.

†

Buffy is on edge. Even the slight wind shift makes her skin prickle. They’ve completed their normal route through the cemeteries with no sign of any vampires.

“Maybe we just got them all?” she says hopefully.

Angel gives a quick squeeze to her hand. “Maybe.”

“Kiss me,” Buffy says suddenly.

They stop walking so Angel can look at her quizzically. She smiles widely. Contrary to popular belief, they are not slaves to their passion and they don’t usually make out while hunting.

“Maybe they’ll think we’re distracted and attack. Not that you need a reason to kiss me.”

He softly tugs the hand still nestled within his and she takes a step, closing the distance between their bodies.

His kiss isn’t timid or gentle, it’s hungry. As their tongues tangle and slide against each other, the world falls away and Buffy is left gasping for air, her womb fluttering.

She slides her hand into his hair and fists it with a strong tug. He growls against her, and the gentle hands holding her body increase their pressure.

She is mid-moan when Angel spins her away from him. The wind assaults her wet lips, and she’s dazed and confused for a moment.

There’s a sword in the earth where they'd just been standing, and three vampires circling Angel.

“You brought gifts,” Buffy says. “You shouldn’t have. Really.”

Before she can join the fight, Angel has already dusted one of the vamps. She aims for the largest of the remaining two, pulling him away from Angel by the collar of his jacket with enough force to send him sprawling.

Her hand is covered in white powder where she touched him, and she grimaces “Ew.”

The vampire is on his feet quickly, hunched over and attempting to keep his distance while swiping at her. Buffy launches herself across the space separating them and lands inside of his arms. She lands a quick jab to his ribs before she spins in his grasp so her elbow can rear back and crunch his pelvis.

She’s immune to his howls of pain; a flick of her wrist and her stake is in her hand and poised.

“Wait!” Angel calls.

The wood of her stake splinters in his sternum and punctures the meat of his heart. He crumbles to ash.

“I know where they’re crashing,” Buffy says, holding up her dirty palm.

†

“The increase in parentage lately? Hughes' factory shut down. Get this, they rip out some of the ceiling to put in a pretty skylight and surprise, asbestos pours out! I don't know why I didn't make the connection -- all the powder coating the vamps lately, the huge asbestos-covered factory on the edge of town.”

When Angel doesn’t respond, Buffy turns to see his frown. He circles her wrist with his large hand and begins pulling her across the street to a water fountain.

“I’m fine,” she huffs. “Really.”

“You’re human,” he counters. “You shouldn’t be touching that stuff.” His jaw clenches. “The dizzy spells -- I should've known.”

“Still alive over here. No harm no foul, right?”

His face darkens even more if at all possible. “I don’t think you should come to the factory.”

“Tough.” She allows him to rinse off her hand in the chilly water. “I’m the Slayer. It’s what I do.”

“At least hang back and let me scope it out?”  Angel wraps her cold fingers in his sweater,  drying and warming them in one move. “I'll get some intel and we can come up with a plan. That way you don’t need to touch it, or breathe it in, any more than you already have.”

"Actually, the hands-off thing may work. Remember how I got kicked out of Hemery?"

†

Hughes' warehouse ignites with a purposeful lack of subtlety. A loud whoosh sounds in Buffy's ears moments before the wind carries the fire's warmth across her face.

“Go time!” She yells into her walkie talkie.

She backs away from the warehouse's chained doors, positioning herself on the side of the building close enough to catch any escaping vampires.

“Roger that,” Willow responds through static.

Large balloons hurdle through the night, crashing into the building and splattering their chemical concoctions. The smell of gasoline and paint thinner is thick in the air.

The flames consuming the building dance in a mirage of oranges and yellows, and with each balloon that makes contact it breathes cloud white with sky blue edges.

“You’re up, Xander.”

“It’s Nightwing. And no one is saying over when they’re done talking. Over.”

“You’re up Xander, over.” Willow corrects.

“It’s Nightwing. Over.”

“Xander!” Buffy growls into the receiver.  

“Chill.” His breath is harsh. “Me and G man have it covered.”  By now the surrounding area should be treated to stop the fire from spreading.

Buffy glares at the receiver just as Xander's voice squeaks through again.

“But seriously, call me Nightwing. Over.”

Various items fly through the small windows near the far corner of the factory. There are several loud bangs, and muffled shouts, and then only the crackling of the fire, and the destruction of property.

“I’m still clear over here. Angel?”

“I’m clear here too.”  She exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding; having a boyfriend who would burn to death in a fire isn’t exactly new, but his innate flammability and the acceleration of his embalming would be.

“Let’s retreat to stage two. The smoke is getting pretty thick.”

Buffy treks up the small hill, anxiously looking for Angel as if they’ve been apart for a decade. She notices her distress and almost rolls her eyes at herself. But then she sees him, outlined by a raging fire like the hero in an action movie, her friends safe at his sides, and ants crawl across her skin, and the butterflies in her stomach flutter awake. Her tenuous control over her heartbeat slips and suddenly it’s beating so hard that she feels it clogging her throat.

“Buffy,” he says his line on time.

Her response is slightly out of breath.

Willow and Oz are first to sit on the hill, hands pulled into their hoodies, gazing at the fire. Buffy and Angel follow, and then a reluctant Giles and Xander.

They managed to lock all eleven of the remaining vampires inside of the factory before setting it ablaze. With the concoction Giles and Willow stirred up, the asbestos would soon cease to be a factor, and Hughes' insurance should have the workers back to work in no time.

“How long should we wait?” Xander asks.

No one responds. Everyone is too caught up in the light of the fire, the crackling sounds, the bellows of smoke drifting into the sky.

The roof collapses inward, and the building's foundation finally goes. As a group they watch as the factory literally burns to the ground.

“Pretty,” Willow comments softly.

“Arson,” Giles corrects.

 


End file.
